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Stella casually spread her hands over the seat on either side of her. “I can certainly avoid tea. Thank you for the suggestion.”

She’d been dreading the party, but she didn’t mind so much, now that she had a secret companion.

“I’m happy to see you smiling,” her aunt said. “I know that polite society can be intimidating, Stella, but truly there is nothing to worry about. Just think of your dowry and hold your chin high!”

Stella’s fingers curled around the warm creature nestled by her leg.

“I shall do my best.”

Chapter Five

Lady Boodle’s townhouse

Langham Place

Walking into the Boodle drawing room beside her aunt, Stella saw Blanche Boodle and seven or eight young ladies clustered together on one side of the room, chattering as if a flock of sparrows had landed in the same tree. Lady Boodle and the older women were seated on the opposite side of the room, which meant she couldn’t hide amongst them.

Curtsying gave her an excuse to hold up her skirts, her hand carefully positioned to disguise her pocket. As quickly as possible, she slipped into an armchair next to Lady Lydia Renwick, the Earl of Lilford’s sister. If his lordship was indeed looking for a wife, Lydia might be her sister-in-law. Smiling at everyone, she casually rearranged her skirts to disguise the kitten curled into a tight ball by her leg.

Across the room, her aunt was presumably informing the other chaperones of Stella’s enlarged dowry. For their part, the young ladies were intently dissecting the marital prospects of every debutante not invited to the tea party.

Lydia was among the most talkative and seemed to have strong opinions about those deemed unfashionable.

Which begged the question: Why on earth had Stella been invited? This was a party for winners, not losers.

By the time a footman offered to replenish teacups, the conversation had shifted to a looser topic that could be summed up as what gentlemen want.

“They want to fall in love,” Stella offered.

Lydia snorted. “They want a large dowry and blue blood. You are a marquess’s granddaughter, Lady Stella, but your dowry is even more important.”

Well, that explained her invitation.

“They admire the feminine arts,” Julia Fitzwilliams put in. Her father was reportedly considering three proposals, so all eyes turned to her. “Singing a ballad is effective, but French songs make you seem knowledgeable without being a bluestocking.”

Stella thought Julia’s shudder at the word “bluestocking” was overly theatrical, but it was nothing Mrs. Thyme hadn’t warned her about a million times.

“My mother won’t allow me to learn any French songs, as she considers them improper,” one young lady said.

Julia rolled her eyes. “I can teach you a French ballad. That way no one can consider it improper.”

“The music for Plaisir d’Amour is on the pianoforte,” Blanche Boodle remarked.

“I love that song!” Julia cried, clapping her hands.

The young ladies promptly traipsed off to surround the pianoforte, where Julia began flipping through sheet music. Since Stella knew any number of songs in French and German, and more importantly, didn’t want to disturb her kitten, she remained seated, as did Lydia and Blanche.

“Do you understand the French language, Lady Stella?” Lydia asked.

Stella was nibbling a ginger biscuit and thinking about how much she’d love some tea. But her aunt was right about the danger. The table was too far away to touch with her knee, which would have helped her judge where to replace a cup.

“I do,” she said, nodding. “I had a French governess.”

“French governesses abound, but that doesn’t mean their charges learn the language,” Lydia said with a titter. “Blanche and I had years of French instruction in one of the very best seminaries for young ladies, but the only thing I remember is adieu, which is either goodbye or hello. I forget now.”

“Yet you sing in French?” Stella asked Blanche.

“That’s easy enough,” Blanche replied. “You needn’t understand the words. In fact, it’s better not to. French sounds so improper that a claim of ignorance is an excellent defense.”